Criminal Enterprise (32 page)

R
IDING IN
AN
FBI helicopter high above the Twin Cities, Windermere stared down at the Timberline Motel, the police cars parked outside looking like Matchbox toys. Beside her, Stevens gripped his armrest tight.
Poor guy,
she thought.
Bad enough that
his daughter’s been kidnapped. Now they force him up in this deathtrap machine.

Saint Paul PD had taken a 911 call earlier in the morning. A city cop named Monaghan relayed the story to Stevens and Windermere. “Energy Park. Some sleazebag motel. Desk clerk said he just saw the guy’s truck pulling away.”

“Headed where?” Windermere said, her adrenaline kick-starting. “We have eyes on him yet?”

“Patrol cars en route. Clerk said he was headed toward Minneapolis.”

“He have a girl with him?”

Monaghan shrugged. “Clerk didn’t see. But he checked the guy’s room out after he made the call. Phoned back and said there was blood everywhere.”

Windermere turned to Stevens just in time to watch the big cop go pale. His wife hid her face beside him. According to the forensics team on-site, though, the blood was type A. Stevens’s daughter was type O.

So Andrea hadn’t bled all over Tomlin’s motel room. Probably Tomlin had. Probably, he was shot. If they were lucky, he was dying somewhere. Stevens had said the guy sounded like a corpse on the phone.

Except he was still in transit. Meaning he was still dangerous.

The radio crackled. Saint Paul city cops, still unable to locate the Navigator. They’d sent units speeding to the motel and then spiderwebbing out along the main thoroughfares, had searched I-94 and every road headed toward Minneapolis and still come up blank.

Unbelievable.
Tomlin must have had a horseshoe lodged somewhere intimate. He’d spent the night at the fleabag motel, easy-peasy, and it was only when he’d decided to leave that anyone sat up and took notice. Shopping, he’d told Stevens. What the hell did that mean?

Both Minneapolis and Saint Paul police departments had cruisers headed to every major shopping mall in the region, but the snow was still crippling and the traffic intense. And anyway, there were almost more malls and big-box stores than police cruisers in the Twin Cities. If Tomlin had chosen some out-of-the-way Target, nobody would find him in time.

The pilot looked back at Windermere. “You want me to bring her down?”

Windermere looked out at the motel again. “Not much point,” she said, staring out the window. In the distance, she could see the Bank of America in Midway, where Tomlin had started his little spree. Then the First Minnesota branch in Prospect Park, and Darcy Passat’s house a few blocks away.
How long ago that was,
Windermere thought. Her visit to the bank teller’s home felt like years in the past, given all that had transpired since.

And now Tomlin was gone again. Had faded into the backdrop of the city like a cloud of smoke. Windermere stared out over the bleak, snowbound landscape, and prayed she could find him in time.

T
OMLIN SHOVED
Andrea Stevens down the row of parked cars, struggling to keep his breath. Damn it, he hurt.

Forget the pain.
He shouldered the rifle and pushed the girl forward.
You’ll be dead soon, anyway.
Just make it until Stevens arrives.

The mall was crowded despite last night’s blizzard, the parking lot packed full of snow-covered SUVs and salt-encrusted minivans. Tomlin looked around in disgust. The last time he’d been to the Mall of America had been more than a year ago, before the layoff. Heather had dragged him to the Hollister store, and Becca to Williams-Sonoma, where he’d waited for hours while they spent hundreds of his dollars on overpriced crap. He himself had paid six hundred dollars for a pair of shoes that day, and the memory made him want to swallow the barrel of his gun.

Andrea glanced back at him, and he prodded her with the assault rifle. “You like malls, don’t you?” he said. “Every girl likes a mall.”

The girl said something through her gag. It sounded like a plea. Tomlin smiled at her and nudged her again with the gun. “Keep going.”

They walked through another row of parked cars, getting close to the Nordstrom that anchored this end of the mall. Tomlin heard voices to his right, looked and saw a middle-aged couple approaching. They were so lost in conversation that they didn’t notice Tomlin and the girl until they’d almost collided. Then they looked up.

“Sorry.” The man smiled at Tomlin, sheepish. The woman saw the gun and gasped. The man followed her gaze and looked back at Tomlin, still smiling, like he thought the whole thing was a joke.

Tomlin winked at him. “Don’t mention it.” He swung the rifle around at the man’s stomach. Then he pulled the trigger.

—

A
NDREA SCREAMED
through her gag as Tomlin shot the man, rapid-fire. The guy collapsed to the pavement, and Tomlin laughed, high-pitched and crazy, before turning the gun toward the woman.

Crap.
Andrea kicked Tomlin in the shin and tore her wrists from the duct tape. Tomlin spun at her and she shoved him backward as hard as she could. Then she turned and ran, zagging between the parked cars, her head down, expecting the maniac to cut her down with that big army gun.

But he didn’t shoot at her. She tore at her gag and threw it aside as she ran for the mall. Behind her, Tomlin finally woke up and fired, a harsh staccato burst, deafening in the confined concrete lot. Andrea threw herself to the ground, panting for breath. Somewhere, a car horn sounded. She could hear the woman sobbing behind her and Tomlin’s footsteps on the pavement.
Crap,
she thought.
Crap, crap, crap.

She was about fifteen yards from the sky bridge to Nordstrom. People were already poking their heads out the doors, curious. “Get back,” she screamed at them. “This guy has a gun.”

Nobody paid attention. Tomlin came closer, laughing again.
He’s freaking crazy,
Andrea thought.
He’s totally lost it.
She picked herself up and ran for the door, waiting for Tomlin to fire again. He was probably aiming straight at her. She pushed the thought from her mind and kept running, her head down. Kept screaming at the dumb mall people to move.

Tomlin fired another burst. This time, the Nordstrom door shattered. People screamed. Ducked to the ground. Andrea reached the edge of the parked cars and dashed across the bridge to the ruined doors. She threw herself inside the store and crawled out of Tomlin’s sight.

More people were coming, attracted by the commotion, concerned looks on their faces. “Call nine-one-one,” Andrea yelled to them. “There’s a guy with a really big gun.” Then she ran again, deeper into the department store, dodging between counters and clothing racks as Tomlin’s gun roared again behind her.

T
HE RADIO CRACKLED
in the FBI chopper. The pilot looked back at Stevens and Windermere. “Something heavy going down at the Mall of America,” he said. “Some guy just walked into Nordstrom with a machine gun.”

Stevens felt his heart syncopate. “Tomlin.”

Windermere nodded. “Definitely.” She looked at the pilot. “Take us there.”

The pilot swung the helicopter toward the mall, and Stevens gripped the armrest tighter, willing his stomach to stay settled as the chopper picked up speed. He spoke to the pilot through his headset. “My daughter,” he said. “Any information?”

The pilot shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Shit.” Stevens pictured his daughter. Then he pictured Tomlin, the madman.
Shooting up the Mall of America.
What the hell for?

Windermere caught his expression, reached over and touched his hand. “This is it,” she said. “This is where we get him.”

Stevens gripped her hand and said nothing. Stared out the window as the Twin Cities passed by below, the vast Mall of America compound looming in the distance.
Hurry,
he wanted to scream.
Hurry. My daughter’s down there.

The chopper sped toward the mall. Stevens shifted in his seat, nearly overwhelmed by the adrenaline rushing through him, desperate to get down to his daughter.

T
OMLIN’S HEART
POUNDED
as he chased Andrea Stevens into the department store. She was running ahead, gaining ground, and Tomlin struggled to follow.

Don’t fucking
lose her,
he thought.
Not now.

It was all happening. The wound in his stomach throbbed, but Tomlin could barely feel it. He could hear people shouting, alarms sounding, the rush as a stampede of shoppers made for the exits, but everything seemed muted and distant, like the sound track to a vivid dream.

A salesclerk poked her head up from behind a cash register. She locked her wide eyes on Tomlin’s for a split second, and then he swung the rifle around and let off a burst. The woman dropped out of sight, screaming, and Tomlin fumbled to reload before he finished her off. He was down to his last clip in the AR-15. And then whatever Schultz had in his little machine gun. The pistol he would save for the girl.

Something moved on Tomlin’s right and he spun around and saw a security guard making a break for him, trying to play the hero. Tomlin pulled Schultz’s gun from his waistband and squeezed off five or six shots before the gun recoiled, wild, and sent a burst to the ceiling as the guard collapsed to the floor.

Tomlin relaxed his finger on the trigger and walked to the guard. The guard stared up at Tomlin like a fox in a trap. “Are you scared?” Tomlin asked him. The guard didn’t answer. Tomlin kicked him in the gut, hard, and the guy screamed out something in Spanish.

“Are you scared?”

The guard spat blood. Then he nodded. Tomlin smiled. “Good.”

“Please,” the guard said. Tomlin shot him again. Then he straightened and surveyed the store. Racks of clothing jostled and shook like trees in the wind all around him, people hiding behind them, whispering, gathering courage. More heroes. Tomlin let off another burst with the machine gun and smiled as the whispers died away. He finished loading the assault rifle and set off through the aisles after Andrea Stevens.

—

A
NDREA RAN THROUGH
the department store. She heard people screaming, heard glass shattering around her, the sirens still so far away.
Keep going,
she thought, her chest burning.
Get the hell away from this psycho.

Ahead of her, people were stampeding for the door, ducking and slipping on the tile floor, hurrying for the relative safety of the crowded mall corridors. They left the store empty behind them; a few stragglers cowered behind counters and cash registers, but mostly the place had cleared out.
You can’t lead him out there,
Andrea thought.
He’ll mow those people down with that gun.

The police would be coming soon. If she could hide away from Tomlin for a little while longer, stay alive until they arrived, they would catch him and kill him and everything would be over. She crouched down behind a cosmetics counter. Peered out into the aisle and heard more shooting. More screaming. She couldn’t see Tomlin.
He’s coming,
she thought.
You need to move.

Andrea counted to five in her head. Then she ran. Bolted across the aisle to the next counter over. Kept her head down. Kept running. She ran toward the far end of the store. Rounded a corner and nearly tripped over a man lying flat in the aisle. “Are you hurt?” she asked him.

The man shook his head, no. Didn’t move. “Run,” she told him. “Get out of here. He’s coming this way.”

The guy still didn’t move. Andrea felt her panic rising.
“Run,”
she said. “Do you want to die?”

The guy lay with his head on the floor. Andrea hesitated for a moment and then took off again. She reached the end of the store, the far wall. The fitting rooms and a door to the stockroom. She leaned against the wall, her head down, catching her breath. Listened for Tomlin and still didn’t hear him.

Where is he?
She surveyed the store, the shattered cosmetics counters, their bright fluorescent lights flickering and dying, the exit to the parking lot with its ruined doors, the empty escalators and the clothing displays shot to tatters. She could see a couple of survivors hiding amid the carnage, but she couldn’t see Tomlin anywhere.

He’s out there.
The thought paralyzed her.
He’s out there somewhere, and he’s coming for you.

T
HE PILOT
LANDED
the helicopter on the roof of the parking garage, and a harried-looking plainclothesman met Stevens and Windermere as they stepped out to the pavement. “Gibbs,” he said. “Narcotics, Minneapolis PD.”

Stevens frowned. “Narcotics.”

“My day off.” Gibbs shrugged. “Kids wanted the new
Call of Duty.
Guess they got the real deal instead. You guys running this show?”

Windermere nodded. “FBI,” she said. “And BCA.”

“My daughter’s in there,” said Stevens. “With the gunman.”

Gibbs looked at him again. “Holy shit,” he said. “You’re the guy.” He studied Stevens, then shook his head and started toward a stairwell. “Come on,” he said, looking back. “I’ll tell you where we’re at.”

—

“G
UY CAME IN
from the parking garage,” Gibbs told them as they descended. “Shot someone on his way inside, a guy up from Milwaukee with his wife. Then he walked into the Nordstrom and laid waste to the place.

“We don’t have a casualty count.” Gibbs glanced at Stevens. “But that place was packed this morning. Some kind of sale. He’s still in there now.”

“You have containment?” Stevens asked him.

Gibbs nodded. “Couple guys are working through to the mall-side entrance.”

“Our man in there has an assault rifle and a bad disposition,” said Windermere. “You’re going to need more than a couple of guys.”

Gibbs shook his head. “Don’t have the manpower yet. Guards inside the mall don’t have sidearms, and it’s still chaos on the law-enforcement side. We’re still talking first responders, patrol cars. Uniforms with their pop guns, no better.”

“No FBI support for another twenty minutes,” said Windermere. “Traffic’s still shitty from the snow.”

Stevens frowned. “He’ll shoot up the whole mall before we get our act together.”

Gibbs led them out of the stairwell and onto another parking garage level. In the distance, Stevens could see the bridge to the department store, unnaturally bright in the shadows of the garage. Another patrol car sat askew by the entrance, and Stevens could hear more sirens whooping up from the level below.

He looked across the bridge and saw a security guard lying on the polished white floor inside, unmoving.
Andrea’s in there.
He felt another chill shudder through him.

Gibbs was pointing out the first casualty, a middle-aged man lying in a puddle of blood on the pavement, a woman crouched over him, sobbing. The narcotics officer looked up as Stevens started toward the mall entrance. “Where are you going?” Stevens ignored him. Kept walking.

The store looked deserted as he crossed the pavement toward it. Soft-rock instrumental music drifted out from the shattered doors, and the security guard hadn’t moved from the white floor inside. Windermere caught up beside him. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Hold up, Kirk.”

Stevens stopped. Cast her a wry smile. “Guess I get to play cowboy after all.”

“You don’t have to go in there,” she said. “We’ll have SWAT and HRT here any minute. Let them handle this.”

“Bullshit.” Stevens shook out of her grip. “There’s no time, Carla.”

Windermere studied his face. Then she nodded. “You’re right,” she said, reaching for her sidearm. “Let’s go get him.”